


Happily Never After: A Simon Snow Novel

by magicatharine



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell, Fangirl - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow series - Gemma T. Leslie
Genre: Gen, M/M, Simon Snow - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 12:02:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5868682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicatharine/pseuds/magicatharine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simon Snow and Baz Grimm-Pitch are finally happy--they've defeated the Humdrum, killed the Mage, and restored peace to the World of Mages. So what happens when Simon receives a mysterious letter addressed to him from the Mage (yes, THAT Mage, the one who caused this whole bloody mess in the first place, and, oh yeah, IS SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN KILLED THREE YEARS AGO)? Simon Snow will have to rise to the challenge and save the Mackigal world, of course! (Again. It's becoming a regular thing now. Seriously. What ever happened to Happily Ever After?)</p><p> This is my first fan fiction; I hope you like it!! Please please please comment what you think!! I would really appreciate the feedback!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happily Never After: A Simon Snow Novel

**Author's Note:**

> EEEEEK I FINALLY POSTED SOMETHING!!. So this is my first post on this website! It's a pretty short piece, but I'm just trying this out for now. I would really appreciate it if you could tell me what you think of this in the comments!! :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:  
> EEEEK I'VE BEEN SUPER SCARED TO POST THIS, BUT I MUSTERED UP ALL MY COURAGE AND HERE IT IS...
> 
> Enjoy ;-P

BAZ 

Simon Snow is an insufferable fool. He has an unhealthy addiction to sour cherry scones, he can make friends with anything that moves and has half a brain, and, most of the time, he has the attention span of a bloody cocker spaniel.  
And I’m madly, irrevocably in love in with him.  
I have been since our fifth year at Watford School of Magicks; possibly even before then. I spent most of my school years trying to decide whether to kill him or declare my undying love for him. Eventually, I choose the latter. Kind of. I’m not really one to express my emotions, but I figure that sacrificing my master plan to burn myself to death in order to save him from the flames is enough of a statement. (If it isn’t enough, I’m pretty damn sure that the sheer volume of kissing that came after is.) It’s been three years since we left Watford. (I moved in with my aunt Fiona while attending university, and Simon still lives with his best friend, Penelope.)  
That’s three years that he’s been my boyfriend. It still sounds so new and exciting. Simon Snow is my boyfriend. Mine and no one else's. I don’t know if the thrill will ever wear off.  
Now, as I sit on the stiff, leather couch in my aunt’s flat, staring at him across the room, sitting on the armrest of the big chair in the corner, scoffing down an entire box of cherry chocolate scones, I feel infinitely glad that I choose the latter.  
“Why are you smiling at me?” Snow’s voice interrupts my thoughts.  
Crumbs of donut fly out of his mouth; I resist the urge to yell at him about his atrocious table manners. Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to talk with your mouth full, you idiot? (What can I say? Old habits die hard.)  
To be fair, the scones from the bakery down the road are the closest thing to Watford’s sour cherry scones we can find; even I have to summon all my willpower not to eat them when I’m in front of people. (My fangs come out. Long story.)  
“I’m not allowed to smile now? Crowley, Snow, less of the ‘controlling boyfriend’ act, please.” I look away, feeling my cheeks begin to burn.  
Has he really turned me into the type of bloke who sits and stares at the love of his life and doesn't even realizes he’s doing it?  
“Aha!” He points, his eyes gleaming. “You’re blushing! You’re such as big softy at heart, Basilton.”  
“Am not,” I retort, letting a smile creep back into my voice. “And don’t call me Basilton.”  
He gets me every time.  
He opens his mouth to say something, but the sound of the keys in the door down the hallway silence him.  
He settles on giving me one of his glinting smiles instead.  
I will be my aunt Fiona; she’s been out all afternoon with another one of her badass drummer boyfriends. She gave me a knowing look and a wink when she told me she’d be gone for most of the day this morning, and that I’d have, I quote, “the house to yourself to get up to all sorts of mischief”. Groan. My aunt is nothing if not keen. And ever since she found out that my boyfriend had a part in killing the Mage, she’s taken quite a liking to him. So of course I invited Simon over. And we walked down to the bakery to get his scones, and took and stroll in the park, and came back here. Nothing else. We don’t do it all the time, contrary to what Fiona thinks.  
Moments later, my aunt’s voice booms through the flat, the sounds of her combat boots making her way down the hallway echoing into the living room.  
“Alright, boys? Look what I found waiting for you outside!”  
I wince and resist the urge to cover my ears. Fiona’s voice is like a herd of thundering elephants.  
“For Crowley’s sake, Fiona, do you always have to be so bloody loud?” I call.  
“And what did you find outside?” Simon adds, twisting in his seat to face the open doorway.  
My aunt’s head appears around the doorframe, followed by the mismatched ensemble that makes up the rest of her body.  
Ripped jeans, combat boots, oversized army vest, studded choker. She looks like a mix between a rocker chick and an army foot-solider. That’s just how she likes it.  
She grins at us, one of her arms behind her back.  
Simon fidgets; he looks as excited as a little child on Christmas morning.  
“Oh Fiona, stop being so melodramatic,” I drawl. “Let’s see.”  
“Well that’s the strange thing,” she says, glancing to Simon. “It’s for him.”  
She pulls her arm out from behind her back. She’s clutching a letter, if you can even call it that.  
It’s about twice the size of a normal letter, and wrapped in a deep green envelope, with a line of slanted writing across the front.  
Something about it looks strangely familiar.  
“Me?” Simon looks shocked. “Who would send me a letter? And why here?”  
“Who’s it from?” I ask, straining to get a closer look at the package.  
“It doesn’t say,” Fiona turns it around in her hands, then strides across the room and hands it to my boyfriend, perching on the other armrest of the chair. (My boyfriend. A chill runs down my spine.)  
Simon takes the letter, frowning. Maybe he senses it too. That familiar feeling.  
I watch tentatively as he carefully rips open the envelope, box of scones sitting on the coffee table forgotten. (Well, either that, or he already ate them all.)  
He pulls out the actual letter; it’s a yellowing piece of parchment paper, the same writing inscribed across it.  
“Who’s it from?” I ask again, shifting uncomfortably in my already-uncomfortable seat.  
Fiona leans in closer to get a better look. I watch the colour drain from her face; her entire body becomes rigid.  
Simon’s eyes widen; he looks up, and then looks back down at the paper again, as if he can’t believe what he’s just read. Fiona is sitting stock-still, looking mildly crazed. A sick feeling settles in the pit of my stomach.  
And then it dawns on me.  
I realize why the letter looks so familiar in the same second that Simon opens his mouth to speak.  
The green. The organized, sloping text scrawled across the envelope.  
“It says…it says it’s from the Mage.”


End file.
